


The Addleton Tragedy (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [135]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Betrayal, Butt Plugs, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Fratricide, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Train Sex, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The second of a run of three cases in the North yields a surprise face from the past. And there is an obvious suspect in a double killing – except that he could not possibly have done it.





	The Addleton Tragedy (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [supersockie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersockie/gifts).



Foreword: This story is included in response to a request from Squire Philip Millebrande, who has asked me to publish it to help quash certain unpleasant rumours surrounding his late father David. He has asked for and been granted the right to check my work before publication, and has declared himself content with my humble efforts.

+~+~+

It was fortunate that nearly two months elapsed between my return to Belford with the subsequent wonderful week with my brother and his family, and our next major case. Sherlock had not been jesting when he had said, within sight of my old home, that upon my return we would have seven days without sex to make up for.

I shifted in my chair, and thought once again about that article on how pleasure and pain – both of which I could still feel in my poor backside – were intertwined. That definitely needed further investigation, in my humble opinion. Once I was capable of standing.

“We are going North to meet an old acquaintance”, Sherlock said, breaking into my breakfast thoughts over his usual mound of bacon. 

He had taken to having some strange herbal teas for a breakfast beverage, after of course the regulation three or more cups of coffee first. I should almost certainly have been annoyed at his presumption that I would follow him like an obedient dog. He must have noticed my reaction, because he eyed me as he took an overly long sip of his disgusting tea, something that he only tended to do when he was uncertain.

God, but I had missed him during my week away! Weird-smelling tea and all!

“When?” I asked. I was not expected at the surgery, but I did have one patient upon whom I had promised to call. And more importantly, she was one of the far too few who always paid their bills on time! 

“There was a double murder in Westmorland last night, and I should be on the scene as soon as possible”, he said, clearly a little wary that he had over-presumed. “I am sorry. You do not usually work on Thursdays now....”

“I promised Mrs. Beltane that I would check in on her son Frederick's recovery”, I said, “and I have to drop off some reports at the surgery. “But it is nothing too serious. We could visit both work and her house on the way to the station. I assume that we are travelling from Euston?”

He looked relieved at my acceptance.

“Yes, or if your client is a little demanding, we could catch a later train from St. Pancras”, he said, putting his tea down. “I am sorry if I assumed too much, John….”

“I am just glad to have you back”, I said. He looked pleased, and I was unable to resist adding, “even if the place does look a mess!”

He gave his most mournful kicked puppy look, which was frankly unfair. I was a manly man, and should have been inured from such things.

“I do not have anyone to tidy up after me any more!” he said mournfully, as if he was being horribly deprived. And it was his grabbing me the minute I had come in from work yesterday and jerking me off right there amidst all his papers that was the cause of most of this wreckage! Grumpily I threw a breakfast roll at him, and disappeared into my room to get ready.

All right, yes. I _was_ smiling. That is not the point!

+~+~+

As well as being a good payer, I quite liked old Mrs. Beltane, whose only failing was an almost manic fear over her son's health (a little odd, considering he was the second of eight boys). He had been suffering from a persistent cold, and it had lasted for over a month, but the medicine that I had proscribed last time seemed to be working now, much to my relief. I declined her generous offer of tea, as I wanted to be off. 

The London traffic also delayed us, so we headed to St. Pancras after all, as the Midland Railway trains served the town of Kirkby Stephen, which was near to our destination (although we could have got to the area quicker from Euston, we would then have faced a long carriage ride from Tebay). Addleton Hall, where the murder had taken place, had its own private halt, but as that lay on the North Eastern Railway's line across the Pennines, it was quicker to alight at Kirkby Stephen and take a carriage. The Railway Age was a wonderful thing; so many options in such a sparsely populated area.

This was also the time when corridor coaches were beginning to be the norm, and it was odd to recall that railway travel for the masses had only really started some two decades ago, when the Midland Railway had slashed fares for third-class passengers, and forced other companies to follow suit by the simple expedient of making a lot more money. I rather preferred the old non-corridor coaches, which ensured one's privacy, and was pleased that Sherlock had secured us a first-class compartment in the rear saloon car of the train. Which meant that we would not be disturbed by people walking up and down past us all the time. How nice of him.

+~+~+

I winced as the train jerked away from Sheffield Midland Station, and began to pick up speed once more. Sherlock's face went from neutral to feral (again) in a matter of seconds. I was going to die!

“John!” he growled.

I nodded frantically and scrambled to my feet, ignoring the ache in my backside. We had barely been clear of the platforms at Euston before Sherlock had been on me, quickly scissoring me open and spearing me with that huge cock of his. I would never view the points north of Euston in quite the same way again, for the swaying of the train from side to side meant that he had struck my prostate several times in a row before leaving it be, causing me to whine in anticipation. He had obviously been wearing a cock-ring, for he had refrained from painting my insides as usual, whilst I had erupted all over my chest and the opposite seat. He had duly wiped it all down, then had had the brass neck to insert a plug into me and tell me to pull my clothes on and 'try to look normal'. Thank Heavens that he had pulled the screens down on both sides, the standard sign during daylight hours of someone who wished Not To Be Disturbed. I was sure that as we had pulled into St. Albans City Junction some twenty-three miles and Lord alone knew how many orgasms later, I positively radiated the image of a man who had just had hot, passionate sex. Sherlock, of course, looked like he had just come from taking an elocution lesson, the bastard!

I had only begun to realize just how much trouble I was in when we had left St. Albans, for Sherlock had been on me again, and this time insisted on staying inside me nearly all the way to Bedford - thirty seven long miles! - before re-inserting the plug and sitting back, a huge smirk on his face. This was frankly demeaning, and I should not have stood for it. Except when we left Bedford, I did stand (or at least lie back) for it. And again when we left Leicester, over fifty miles after that. And Derby, another thirty. And yet another fifty miles on- why was this country so damn big all of a sudden? 

This time Sherlock didn't even bother to get semi-undressed, just whipping out his ever-ready hard cock and gesturing for me to come and sit on him. I sighed in a put-upon way and backed onto him, and he gently removed the plug before positioning himself at my entrance. And then without warning he pulled me down onto him in one quick movement, and oh my God, he was going straight for the prostate. I had nothing left by this time, but my cock still juddered feebly, as he nibbled at the back of my neck. I only hoped he was not leaving another love-bite; the one from earlier this week was large enough, and I had had several strange looks from people at the surgery, as well as some patients. Gentlemen who allowed their partners to mark them were, as a general rule, seen as somewhat unmanly. 

(I was mostly naked, sat on another man's huge cock and being impaled six ways from Sunday on a train passing through the West Riding of Yorkshire. I thought wryly that my manliness had either died somewhere back in London, or was busy arranging to see a lawyer about disowning me!)

And now Sherlock was jerking me off with one hand, whilst toying with my nipple with the other, muttering gentle reassurance in my ear. I nestled back into him, and silently wished that Sheffield and Leeds were more than a mere thirty-five miles apart, as my battered body twitched exhaustedly. And I wondered.... would he be reserving a saloon for the journey back to London?

Lord, I hoped so!

+~+~+

I was torn between surprise and relief when, on reaching Leeds, Sherlock gestured for me to grab my bag and leave with him (although the bastard left the plug in, which was downright mean of him!). Fortunately it turned out that we were only going as far as the dining-car. I had thought that we might transfer to a local train to reach Kirkby Stephen, which was after all only a small town, but Sherlock explained that he had arranged for the train to stop there, and could do so again when it was time for us to return. The only slight distraction was said plug, but at least it was not the vibrator he had purchased recently.

I, of course, was dumb enough to give voice to that thought once the waiter had taken our order. Sherlock's eyes lit up, and I silently thanked God that we had left the vibrator back in Baker Street. The thought of trying to dine with Sherlock in public whilst that torture device was massaging my prostate every second was.... disturbingly exciting.

What the hell was I turning into?

+~+~+

It was dark by the time we reached the little Westmorland town. A carriage was waiting for us, with someone inside of it. 

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson?”

I recognized that voice, and when the dark-skinned figure leant forward out of the carriage, I knew him for sure. Except what was the man with an unusual name doing nearly three hundred miles away from his Surrey beat?

“Sergeant Henriksen!” I exclaimed. Our cake-detecting friend had mentioned not long after the Reigate case in which we had met his nephew that the young man had successfully applied for a promotion, but he had not mentioned where.

“Thanks to you gentlemen”, he said with a smile, before it faded. “I am glad to see you both again, though I wish that it were under happier circumstances. I have two dead bodies, a suspect with a perfect motive – and no earthly way that he can have done it!”

+~+~+

If this was Kirkby Stephen Station, then presumably the Midland Railway Company had been somewhat liberal with its definitions, as I could see few if any signs of life when we rolled away from the station yard.

“The town is two miles up that road”, Sergeant Henriksen said, pointing north past the few cottages into the empty night. “We shall skirt the edges, then cut across to Addleton itself.”

Even that simple gesture earned his coated arm a soaking from the torrential rain which had timed its arrival perfectly to match that of our train. I presumed that our friend did not wish our deliberations to be overheard by the driver, for he remained silent for the time it took to reach our destination.

Quite what Addleton Hall itself was like I had no idea, for by the time of our arrival the torrential rain had accelerated to the point where ark-building was looking highly advisable. We were drenched even by the short run from the carriage to the porch, and I was relieved when a footman took my sodden coat from me.

The entrance-hall of the building was about as depressing as one might have expected from somewhere that two people had just been killed. Sergeant Henriksen guided us into what turned out to be a study, and the efficient staff had coffee and sandwiches ready for us. I was relieved, as I was once more ravenously hungry. I caught Sherlock and the sergeant both eyeing me with some humour, and I scowled at them both. A man had to eat, damn it! I sat down rather too quickly, and my eyes watered. 

Oh yes. The plug.

+~+~+

The food and drinks were cleared away before Sergeant Henriksen began his tale.

“To begin with”, he said, “I should say that I was not the first officer on the scene. I got my promotion to sergeant about six months after we met, thanks mostly to your efforts, sirs. As I am sure you cn guess, sergeant postings are few and far between; fortunately Uncle Vic kept an eye open for me, and he heard of an opening at Appleby with the Cumberland and Westmorland Constabulary, which is expanding its numbers. I applied, and I was accepted. I am sorry not to have told you gentlemen personally, but Uncle Vic said that he passed on the news for me.”

“I remember your aptitude in Reigate”, Sherlock said warmly, “and I am sure that it was your own merits that won you that well-deserved promotion. Now, please tell us about our current case.”

The huge man sat back and sighed.

“It is bad”, he said. “Squire David Millebrande was a man much loved by everyone around, but he and his wife have both been killed. Murdered by someone sneaking into the house and shooting them dead whilst they were at dinner. There was a huge storm passing over at the time, so the gunshots were mistaken for that, I presume. It was only when the maid came in to get the dinner things that the horror was discovered.”

Sherlock frowned.

“That seems somewhat risky, on the murderer’s behalf”, he observed. “Unless they were watching, they could not know if a maid might return unexpectedly, although I suppose having proven to be so bloodthirsty, one more body might probably not overly concern them. How did the murderer gain access to this room?”

“There is a French door out to the garden, with a simple lock on it”, the sergeant said, gesturing to it. “I myself was able to force it open this morning, and there was some evidence of it having been attempted before. I found some footprints leading across a muddy part of the grass to the wall, but they were a size six. My chief suspect is a nine.”

“Who is he?” Sherlock asked.

“The squire’s brother Edward and now, I suppose, guardian to the new squire, his nephew Philip. The boy is an only child, ten years old and, fortunately, away over in Barrow when this happened.”

Sherlock looked hard at him.

“There is something odd here”, he said. “What is it?”

The sergeant grinned.

“Never could get one past you, sir”, he said. “The boy was due home yesterday, before the attack, but his mother arranged for him to stay with a fellow classmate in Barrow for a few days. Just as well.”

“You are certain that his mother arranged this?” Sherlock asked. “Not the other boy's parents?”

Sergeant Henriksen nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “One of the footmen went into town with the telegram, and he had to check its contents before it was sent. And with the shooting.... well.”

I felt that I was missing something here.

“What is it?” I asked. Sherlock turned to me.

“No matter how fast the shooter”, he said, “it takes several seconds to shoot two people at long-range who are sat in different positions at a dinner table. In that time, the one that was shot second would doubtless call for help, unless….”

The sergeant nodded.

“Someone else was in on it”, he said firmly.

“Tell me more about your chief suspect”, Sherlock said. The sergeant frowned.

“Mr. Edward Millebrande. Motive is obvious as he is now squire in all but name, and his nephew's guardian. He has a gun and is an excellent shot, and as to opportunity – well, _that_ is the problem.”

“Please explain”, Sherlock said. The sergeant consulted his notebook. 

The issue is one of timing”, he explained. “Mr. Edward Millebrande was due to arrive after dinner, to discuss certain financial matters as regards the estate. He has a house in Appleby, and went to the North Eastern Railway station there to catch the seven twenty-one train to Addleton Halt. The ticket-collector and the station-master both remember seeing him, and he boarded the train immediately it arrived, at ten minutes past the hour. It has to wait for the northbound train to access the single line, you see.”

“I see something there”, Sherlock said. “Does the man not own a horse?”

“Yes, but his horse was being treated by the local vet for lameness, so he had to catch the train. I did check that, of course.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Very wise”, he said.

“To continue”, the sergeant said, “the train left two minutes late, and reached Kirkby Stephen at seven thirty-eight, one minute down. It stops there for five minutes, so was able to depart on time, at seven forty-two. It reached Addleton Hall Halt, which is unstaffed, at seven forty-eight, on time. The guard did not remember anyone alighting, but the platform is curved and it was raining at the time, so that is not unusual. Mr. Edward Millebrande walked from there to the hall – it is about ten minutes; I checked – and arrived here at just before eight. The footman who let him in remembered that the hall clock was striking as he went to the door.”

“A most fortuitous alibi”, Sherlock smiled. “What next?”

“The visitor was shown into the waiting-room, and the footman went to inform the squire that his brother was here. There was no way that he could have done anything then; the footman had to just walk across that huge hall to go to the dining-room. Then, of course, all hell broke loose. Constable Grafton was summoned from the town – smart fellow got here in less than half an hour; he made sure that everything was done by the book – and I was called in from my station in Appleby. I was off duty, but for such an important client, of course, I had to come. I did a quick check last night – it was pitch dark by then - and Mr. Edward insisted that I stay the night, so that I could continue my investigations this morning.”

“Is Mr. Edward Millebrande here now?” Sherlock asked.

“No, he wished to return to his own house this morning”, the sergeant said. “I can understand why, I suppose. I feel in my bones that he must be guilty, but I do not see how.”

“Nor do I, for now”, Sherlock admitted. “This case will take some thought. Assuming that on the morrow the Good Lord has stopped trying to flood this fair county, my friend and I will take a breath or two of your mountain air, and we will see what we can do.”

Sergeant Henriksen then showed us exactly where the squire and his wife had been sitting at the time, around the corner and furthest from the balcony window. The sergeant also drew our attention to an old-fashioned bell-pull. The chairs, I noted, were medieval style and high-backed, which would have further impeded the shooting angle of a shooter entering from the window.

“This was between the two people”, the sergeant said. “As you said, one or other of them could easily have summoned help in seconds. The squire disliked it as old-fashioned however, and rarely used it.”

“Have you tested it?” Sherlock asked. 

The sergeant reddened. The detective smiled.

“Even I do not think of everything”, he said consolingly, before pulling the rope hard. 

It promptly fell to the floor. We all looked at it in surprise, before Sherlock carefully picked it up.

“The end has been taped back into position”, he said, and before that, cleanly severed from the rest of the rope with some sort of knife. An exceptionally sharp one; there is almost no fraying. So we now know for sure that someone with access to the house was involved. Sergeant, you should seal off this room until further notice. We do not wish our potential suspect to know that we have become aware of their little ruse.”

The sergeant nodded, clearly a little embarrassed at not having spotted such a thing himself. We examined the rest of the room but did not find anything of import, so adjourned to our beds.

+~+~+

The next morning, the three of us assembled in the study. I knew from the light in Sherlock's eyes that he had thought of something. 

“First”, he said, turning to Sergeant Henriksen, “I need to know a couple of things. Is Mr. Edward Millebrande aware that you have brought me in on the case?”

The sergeant scratched his head.

“I did not tell him, sir”, he said, “but given the area, I would be surprised if he does not find out soon enough. These rural areas have their own invisible telegraph system!”

“Then we must move fast”, Sherlock said firmly. “Next, to Mr. Edward himself. Apart from his late brother, what other family does he have?” 

“None close, sir”, the sergeant said. “I believe that there is a sister up in Carlisle, but they do not talk much.”

“I wish you to go and interview her today”, Sherlock said, much to my surprise. And to the sergeant's judging by his reaction.

“Sir?”

“I require as much information about Mr. Edward's character as you can get”, Sherlock said. “I know it is a fair journey, but I would not ask if it were not important. And when you return, can you meet us in Appleby at around five o'clock? At the North Eastern Railway station there, if you please.”

The sergeant still looked puzzled, but stood up.

“Very well, sir”, he said, and left.

I would have said something at this point, but Sherlock just looked me, so I waited until the sergeant had gone before speaking.

“You think that the sister will provide some useful information?” I asked dubiously. He laughed.

“I most sincerely doubt it”, he said. 

“Then why...?”

He sighed, sounding almost unhappily.

“Doctor, I may be what they call a 'town boy', but I _know_ how rural areas like this function”, he said. “Possibly even better than our clever friend. Mr. Edward Millebrande, now the squire in all but name until his nephew comes of age – and that event I consider unlikely, given his uncle's apparent proclivity to remove his own kith and kin from this plane of existence – is an important person in these parts. If he thinks that our friend is getting even remotely close to the truth, he will use his connections to ruin him, and quickly. The sergeant can have a pleasant day out in that old Roman citadel, and Mr. Edward can rest easy in the mistaken belief that he is on the wrong track. No, we must secure our case today, and strike fast. We shall start with the servants.”

+~+~+

Hudson, the butler, was the longest-serving of all the staff at the hall. Sherlock summoned him to the study, and the man stood proud and erect despite his sixty-odd years.

“You are aware as to why I have been called in?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sir”, he said. “To investigate the master's and the mistress' deaths.”

“You understand that, in order to establish the truth, I must ask some difficult questions?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good”, he said. “I have only one main question for you, Hudson. I know that despite her being married, your mistress was secretly seeing another man in recent times, and that their relationship had proceeded a long way beyond the bounds of propriety. I am going to write that man's name on this piece of paper, and pass it to you. I require either conformation or denial that this is the man.”

He quickly wrote something on a scrap of paper and passed it to the butler, who blanched. 

“You are quite correct, sir.”

“Thank you, Hudson.”

The butler hesitated.

“May I be allowed a question of my own, sir?”

“Of course”, Sherlock said.

“Will your gentleman friend be writing this up as one of your cases?”

“Not in the foreseeable future”, I said firmly. “At least, not until the young squire comes of age and can decide if _he_ wishes the details to be made public. Our rule is that no innocent person must be harmed in the publication of any case, so until he is of age and can make that judgement, it shall remain a secret.”

The butler nodded.

“Thank you, sirs”, he said, and withdrew. 

And to my ultimate annoyance, Sherlock scrunched up the piece of paper he had written the name on and threw it neatly into the fire. I shot him a glare for that.

+~+~+

We did nothing for the rest of the morning, although Sherlock went out for a short walk by himself for half an hour or so, and we had a pleasant enough luncheon at the hall. Mercifully the weather had cleared, as my friend had ordered a carriage for the afternoon. I turned out to be a short journey that he had in mind, however, as we went only as far as Kirkby Stephen, a most attractive little market-town. There, he visited all three sets of stables in the town, and came away from the third looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

“What did you find out?” I asked curiously.

“Patience”, he said. “All will be revealed soon.”

I huffed in annoyance. Sometimes I wondered why I put up with him. 

Then he smiled that smile of his, and I knew the answer. Because I loved him.

+~+~+

We proceeded as far as the Midland Railway's station of the day before, where having left the horse and carriage in the stables, Sherlock spent some time scouring the station yard for something or other; he would not say what. He must have found it fairly quickly, for we still had a long wait for a northbound train to come in. We reached Appleby at just after five, and walked the short distance to the North Eastern Railway station, where Sergeant Henriksen was waiting for us on the platform. Sherlock gracefully accepted his notes from his interview with Mr. Edward Millebrande's sister Fenella, and we sat down in the waiting room. 

“Gentlemen”, Sherlock said, “my plans for this evening are to effect a reconstruction of the crime. I believe I can show how Mr. Edward Millebrande killed his brother, yet also established for himself what seemed like the perfect alibi. Assuming, that is, that our esteemed railway companies perform to time.”

“That would be wonderful if you could”, the sergeant said, looking curiously at the large wicker basket Sherlock had brought with us from the hall. “Is there a clue in that huge thing?”

Sherlock opened the basket, and showed its contents to us both.

“Dinner”, he grinned. “We have a long evening ahead of us.”

God bless the man, there was even pie!

+~+~+

We were on the London-bound platform of Appleby (North Eastern) Station when at ten minutes past seven the green North Eastern Railway train pulled in in a swirl of steam and smoke. Sherlock had purchased three single first-class tickets for us. As the train slowed to a halt, he turned to us.

“Gentlemen”, he said firmly, “you must both follow me and do exactly as I do. Do you understand?”

We both nodded, although I did not see exactly how following him into a railway carriage demanded such precise instructions. 

I should have known better.

Sherlock got into the compartment first, then I followed and the sergeant handed me the basket. I turned to speak to my friend, only to find he had vanished.

“What on earth...?” I exclaimed.

There was a tap on the window. Sherlock's head was looking at me from his position between the tracks.

“Hurry!” he demanded.

By the time the sergeant and I had sorted ourselves out, my friend was leaving the station via the level-crossing and hurrying into the twilight. We hoisted the basket between us and raced after him. After only a short time it became clear where he was heading, and sure enough he hurried into the Midland Railway's nearby Appleby (Midland) Station, where a red locomotive was snorting impatiently at the platform. Hoping that he had arranged the tickets, I led Sergeant Henriksen after him, and the two of us made it into the carriage barely a minute before the train started on its journey.

“I checked the railway timetables in the hall library this morning”, Sherlock said, as the two of us recovered our breath. “This train, the seven-nineteen, reaches the Midland station in Kirkby Stephen at seven thirty-one, seventeen minutes before the North Eastern train pulls into Addleton Hall Halt.”

“I should have spotted that!” the sergeant said glumly. “I interviewed the staff at the halt, but not there. Though how did he get to the hall in time? It is some distance away.”

“This was a well-planned crime”, Sherlock explained. “A few days prior, Mr. Edward Millebrande makes his own horse lame and ensures that the local vet treats her, so that it appears he has no transport. He then disguises himself and visits Kirkby Stephen, where he hires a horse for a few days, rides it back to the Midland Railway station in that town, and leaves it in the stables there under a false name. The College Arms in the town hired such a horse to a man loosely matching Mr. Edward's description, and it is due to be returned tomorrow. I would suggest, sergeant, that it might be in your interest to have a man in the vicinity at that time.”

The sergeant nodded. The train was slowing now, and we were pulling once more into Kirkby Stephen (Midland) Station. Sherlock got out and ran ahead, and by the time Henriksen and I were there, had the horse and carriage ready. It was dusk by this time, and the heavy grey cloud made visibility poor.

“You will notice”, Sherlock said, “that there is a second horse in the stables here. I would further recommend coming here first thing tomorrow morning, sergeant, and checking it in the light, before Mr. Edward turns up to collect it. There may even be a loose thread from his clothes, trapped in the saddle.”

“I see it now”, I said. “Except.... who was the man that Mrs. Millebrande was seeing?”

Sherlock looked at me almost sorrowfully. I suddenly felt a cold that had nothing to do with the icy barn we were all standing in. Sergeant Henriksen fidgeted for reasons that I could guess all too well.

“The sergeant suspects rightly”, Sherlock said. “Two people are shot, yet the second one does not call for help. Mrs. Millebrande was secretly seeing her own brother-in-law.”

“What?” I exclaimed in horror. "That is practically incest!"

“Mr. Edward Millebrande rides to the hall directly from Kirkby Stephen (Midland) Station”, he explained. “At a gallop, it is a little over five minutes, so he is there at about twenty to eight. He enters via the balcony window, most probably left ajar for him by his sister-in-law, and shoots the squire dead. Mrs. Millebrande, poor, foolish woman, turns to her lover, only to receive the same treatment. Her killer had no intention of acquiring a burdensome partner for the next few years, during which he intends to strip his nephew's estate bare, and quite probably kill him before he comes of age.”

“He leaves, and knowing the estate as well as he does, he knows there is one particularly muddy area of the lawn where footprints may survive the downpour that has helped mask his killings. He leaves false tracks in shoes that are too small for him – that made me suspicious right away – then retrieves his horse and gallops back to Addleton Hall Halt, probably arriving much the same time as the North Eastern Railway train that he was supposed to be on. You will recall the state of the horse, which had clearly been through some poor usage. The station may be unmanned and only serving the hall, but with the high stakes that he is playing for, he cannot risk someone else alighting and later mentioning, when questioned, that they were the only passenger that night. He then rides more slowly back to the hall, timing his arrival to when he knows the hall clock will be striking the hour, and will likely be remembered.”

“The bastard!” I said.

“But we have him!” the sergeant said, his eyes glowing in the dark.

+~+~+

We had. A search of the horse early the following morning revealed a red fibre with gold braid, which matched Mr. Edward Millebrande's coat that he had worn on the fateful night. And when he returned the horse in Kirkby Stephen wearing the same disguise as before, he was arrested for the murder of his brother. Sadly, however, he was not to face the deserved long drop for his crimes, for he somehow gained access to a razor whilst in jail, and slit his own throat rather than face up to his crimes.

+~+~+

Our next case would involve the famous Smith-Mortimer inheritance, and our crossing swords with the vile Colonel Horatio Carruthers.


End file.
